


A Little Diplomacy Was Needed

by mightymads



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Dr. Watson's diaries, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, jealous!Holmes, set in 1887
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 09:50:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17620193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightymads/pseuds/mightymads
Summary: In the case of ‘The Reigate Squires’ Dr. Watson briefly mentioned that ‘a little diplomacy was needed’ to persuade Holmes to have a country holiday at the residence of the Doctor’s army friend, Colonel Hayter. An excerpt from Watson’s diary sheds some light as to what kind of diplomacy that was, including Holmes’s convalescence after a breakdown and the nature of the Colonel’s feelings to the Doctor.





	A Little Diplomacy Was Needed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [falsepremise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsepremise/gifts).



> With lots of thanks to my awesome beta **Recently Folded**. I learn so much from you!
> 
> For my friend **falsepremise**. Thank you for your kindness last year and may this one be wonderful!

_April 18th._ —This journal has been neglected of late. Ten weeks passed in an intense chase across Europe to untangle the schemes of Baron Maupertuis and to close down the infamous Netherland-Sumatra Company. Exposing numerous frauds and catching the Baron’s accomplices red-handed, Holmes worked with little regard for his health: fifteen hours a day and almost without breaks. It was quite a feat to cajole him into taking his rest occasionally when he was upon the Baron’s trail. At least I was able to take some of the load off his shoulders. However, at the critical moment, I had to leave his side. I was loath to do it, yet I was bound by a previous obligation. My patient, Mrs. Pamela Saunders, had a removal of a benign tumour scheduled. She was in the care of Dr. Davis, a finest surgeon, but had made me promise that I would be present.

Holmes regarded it gracefully, saying that the case was almost solved and I wouldn’t need to worry. Meanwhile, it was clear that the strain was already taking its toll on him. I departed on the 5th of April, ill at ease. Soon my mind was entirely on my patient, and there was no point to wiring Holmes since he would be too busy to reply. Mrs. Saunders required postoperative supervision, so my absence extended for longer than I had initially expected. On the 14th of April all the newspapers hailed Holmes’s triumph. The final link of the chain turned out to be in Lyons, and I sighed with relief, expecting Holmes to be back in London shortly. But by the evening, I received a telegram which read:    

> Bring your Gladstone. Hotel Dulong.
> 
> S. H.

My heart sank. If he used that code phrase which referred to my medical bag, his condition must have been serious enough to have raised his own concerns. I barely slept a wink on the night train, wondering about the state he was in. A strong reaction was upon him, no doubt, coupled with physical and nervous exhaustion.

Within twenty-four hours I had reached Lyons, found the hotel, and been ushered to his room. The room was dimly lit, heavy curtains drawn on the windows. A huge heap of unopened telegrams littered the floor just inside the door.

“We have many more of them, sir. Congratulations keep coming, but Mr. Holmes wished not to be disturbed,” whispered the hotel attendant before leaving.

I walked quietly to the bed where Sherlock lay fully clothed. His complexion was ashen, his cheeks hollowed, and he had harsh shadows under his eyes.

“John,” he said weakly, reaching out for me.

“Oh, sweetheart.” I grasped his hand and pressed my lips to it as I sat down on the side of the bed.

“How did the surgery go?” asked he.

“With some complications, but all is well now,” I replied, starting to examine him.

Thankfully, his symptoms were not as bad as I had anticipated: nothing that wouldn’t be remedied by rest and relaxation. His mental state was a more complicated matter.

“I want to leave here,” he said, his voice catching a little. “I can’t stand this place any longer. I want to go home.”

“So we shall, dear. Tomorrow. And now, when was the last time you’ve eaten?”

“Two days ago. Tried after but couldn’t. I’d throw up.”

“Couldn’t get any sleep either?”

“No.”

I gave him a mild sedative, ordered a light meal for us both, and helped him out of his clothes and into his nightshirt. We unmade the bed, and he settled himself comfortably under covers. When our meal arrived, he had a few morsels. At least his stomach didn’t act up. His eyelids began to droop, and I intended to sit by his side until he fell asleep. Then I would have to go arrange a room for myself as propriety dictated since it was already late in the evening.

“Hold me,” Sherlock murmured.

Blast propriety. I wouldn’t refuse him the comfort of touch because of convention. Besides, we were in France, not in Britain. Having changed into my nightshirt as well, I put out the light and joined him in bed.

Sherlock slept well past noon the following day and had a better appetite upon waking. He was still hardly in shape for travelling, but his mind was set on returning to London. Someone from the hotel staff must have tipped off the press, for we were accosted by numerous reporters when we were leaving the hotel. We made a quick dash to the cab, and I literally had to push the most impertinent fellows out of our way.

This ordeal produced a dismal effect on Sherlock. While we were driving to the station, his hands shook; a pulsing vein bulged on his forehead.

“Breathe, Sherlock, breathe,” I said to him carefully, rubbing his back. “Remember?”

He adjusted his breathing pattern so that it was slower and deeper. Little by little it seemed to help him. At the station we bought out a whole compartment, and for the five hours until Paris Sherlock was safe from external irritants. He dozed off now and again, lying stretched out on the seats, his head resting in my lap. We didn’t speak; he didn’t have energy for it. But already he had regained his ability to eat normally—we were served a decent dinner from the restaurant car—which was good progress.

In Paris we had an hour between the trains. We secured a whole compartment to ourselves once more. There were not many people on the platform, so we could stretch our legs and smoke at ease. Although Sherlock soon tired, it was beneficial, for he slept soundly during our journey to Calais. In fact, he went on sleeping after the ferry, all the way through, leaning on me, his cheek burrowed into my shoulder. Insomnia seemed to have been replaced by the opposite extreme.

“Darling, we’re in London,” I said softly and stroked his side when the train came to a halt at Victoria.

“Wonderful,” he muttered, opening his eyes and yawning.

At Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson welcomed us excitedly, proud of Holmes’s success, yet worrying about his still-emaciated state. There was warmth in Holmes’s eyes as he greeted her. His expression brightened the moment he stepped over the threshold of our flat, and his bearing became visibly less strained, as though a considerable weight were lifted off his chest.

We supped, took a relaxing bath with lavender oil, and he went straight to bed.

 _April 27th._ —I knew Sherlock would stay in bed for days. With proper eating and sleeping his physical condition gradually improved, but he remained terribly subdued. It pained me to see him like this. As always happened when a black reaction was upon him, he withdrew into himself completely and it was impossible to tell what was passing through his mind. Hour after hour he would lie on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. Bodily he would be in the same room with me, whereas in spirit—miles and miles away. Yet there was a positive side to it: he abstained from the cocaine and morphine he would often use in such situations. At nights we slept entwined in each other’s arms. Although he wasn’t in the mood for anything amorous, my simply touching him seemed to give him consolation.

Our sanctum sheltered him like a cocoon from the outside world, which kept talking about the arrest of Baron Maupertuis. _The Times_ , _the Globe_ , _the Daily Telegraph_ , etc., etc. pleaded with Sherlock for an interview or a commentary. He turned them all down, so instead reporters switched to me and then Mrs. Hudson, waiting whenever either of us showed at the door. It was one of the reasons I started contemplating a holiday in the country. The main reason was Sherlock’s well-being, however. Fresh air and some exercise would surely facilitate his convalescence if only a suitable place could be found. And soon an opportunity presented itself.

One morning, I realised that Sherlock looked better. After breakfast he didn’t lie down but seated himself in the armchair, smoking and thumbing through newspapers idly. Still lack-lustre, his gaze wasn’t as apathetic anymore.

“Sherlock, I have an idea,” I said to him. “How about a week in the country? It will do you a world of good. I’ve received a letter from my old army comrade, Colonel Hayter, whom I treated while we served in Afghanistan. He has a residence in Surrey not far from Reigate.”

“Ah, the one who’s been pestering you with his invitations.” Sherlock snorted.

“He invites you too, and now we have time to accept.”

“Oh, John, do you realise what you’re saying? A stranger’s house, having to act properly, tolerate his family, and being unable to touch you or even look at you in a way that’s not appropriate for a friend!”

“There will be no such limitations, my dear.”

“Really? How so?”

“He’s a bachelor, and apart from the trusty servants, there is no one else in the house,” I explained soothingly. “And he knows about us. He himself happens to have been involved with men.”

But, alas, it agitated Sherlock more.

“What? Which men exactly? Is there something I don’t know?” he demanded.

At times I wonder why he is prone to such outbursts of jealousy. Surely he trusts me, and I’ve given him no reason to doubt my love and fidelity. I never hide anything from him regarding the matter. Could this be his own insecurities in his heart of hearts?

“You know that you’re the first and the only man I’ve had, Sherlock,” said I. “It all started with an innocuous chat at the club when the Colonel was in London on an errand, about five months ago. We discussed our lives as civilians, and, naturally, when I described mine, I spoke of you. Perhaps I was less cautious than I should have been, relaxed by a glass of brandy, or perhaps he was more perceptive, being of the same feather—well, he understood. He was surprised at my being inclined this way and told me he had found me attractive even in our army days, but never considered that I might be interested.”

“And were you?” Sherlock asked, very tense.

“Attracted to him? I don’t think so. I admired him as my comrade and a man of honour but not in any other sense.”

Sherlock let out a breath and rubbed his temples.

“You’ve got to be more careful with innocuous chats, John,” said he.

“Yes, sorry about that,” I replied ruefully. “On the bright side, we can go to Surrey. Our host will be most discreet.”

“He does understand that you and I are exclusive and don’t want any third parties?”

“Sherlock, it’s just a friendly invitation. The fellow is bored alone, managing his household. We’ll leave if there’s anything we don’t like.”

“I shall consider it,” Sherlock said, not yet convinced but on his way there.

“Here you’re cooped up indoors all the time,” I went on. “There you’ll be able to go out and see daylight without being chased by the press. It will be better to get away until this frenzy passes.”

“Fair enough. All right then,” he agreed, waving his hand.

To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure whether the Colonel’s invitations had been just friendly—that’s why I had declined them while they had been for me alone. But since in the latest letter the Colonel wrote that he would be glad to receive Holmes as well, I surmised there would be no harm in it. My partner would have much-needed recreation in the country, and his presence would spare me the awkwardness of having to refuse any unwanted advances.

In a couple of days we found ourselves on the train again. As before, Sherlock spent most of the journey asleep, curled up into my side. Upon our arrival the Colonel met us with the trap at the station. Dressed as a typical country squire, he still had the air of a military man. Civilian life hadn’t affected his immaculate posture. I had noted that even during our meeting at the club. Indeed, he hadn’t changed much over the past six years. Now the Colonel must have been in his early forties; his auburn hair had become slightly grizzled, and there were a few more crow’s feet at the corners of his shrewd hazel eyes, but his moustache and side-whiskers were as ever regulation trim, and his stocky figure fit.

“Doctor, Mr. Holmes, welcome,” said he. “Mr. Holmes, it’s such a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you from Watson, and, of course, your recent success is most impressive.”

“Thank you for inviting us,” Holmes said as they shook hands.

“Taking a break from the metropolis is what the doctor ordered after strenuous work, isn’t it?” the Colonel replied, smiling.

“Indeed,” I said, and Holmes gave me an amused glance.

The ride to the Colonel’s house was pleasant. We rattled along narrow lanes which wound their way amongst endless fields and pastures. The air was rich with the scent of new greenery, and the cheerful April sun brightened one’s spirits. Nature was waking up from her winter slumbers, having regained her strength for a new beginning. Lively rural vistas inspired relaxed contemplations, a meditative state unmarred by sorrows, anxieties, and stress of the city. Holmes seemed to be enjoying himself, although he wouldn’t have admitted it. He slipped his arm through mine with a contented sigh.

“These parts are peaceful and beautiful. When I first came here, I realised I needed exactly this after the war,” said the Colonel.

“John, you mentioned that you considered moving to the country too upon your return to England,” said Sherlock.

I was a bit surprised by his using my Christian name in front of an outsider. We usually reserve such intimacy for our home where there’s no one else except our household. But since the Colonel knew of our relationship, perhaps this precaution wasn’t necessary.

“So I would have, most likely, if I hadn’t met you,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders.

It was left unsaid between us two that my prospects had not been quite bright at the time. I could afford only renting, not buying, and a rather plain lodging, surely not a residence.

“I wish we hadn’t got out of touch back then,” the Colonel murmured to himself.

We approached a beautiful if somewhat unkempt oak alley which led to a gabled Elizabethan house of worn, weather-beaten granite. The house was in the process of renovation—its left wing looked considerably fresher than the right one—and promised to be a splendid sight once the works were completed.

“It must take a lot of effort and time to maintain everything,” I mused.

“Yes, there’s still a lot to be done,” the Colonel said. “But it’s very satisfying to see the results emerge gradually.”

I thought about how nice it would be to have a country house. Not a big one, just a cottage where Sherlock and I could spend weekends, roam through the glades together away from curious eyes, laze about the house undisturbed by visitors, and be as loud in bed as we wished. As ever, Sherlock seemed to have read easily what was on my mind.

“Maybe someday,” he said to me softly.

The house was cosy inside, furnished with utmost care to preserve the traditions of old. At the same time one could trace the Colonel’s refined, demure taste. A room with a spacious four-poster bed had been prepared for Holmes and me. Soon after we settled down there was the gong for dinner.

“You lead a retired life, don’t you, Colonel?” Holmes asked as the three of us were chatting merrily at the table.

“Yes, I have but a few friends,” the Colonel replied. “The house and my hobby take up most of my time.”

“You seem to be as keen on geology as before,” I said. “The display of minerals in the hall is astounding.”

“Surrey is a very interesting area to explore,” the Colonel said. “What about you? Still writing?”

“A little.”

“He wrote a novel based on the first case we handled together,” Holmes remarked.

“A novel?” the Colonel asked with excitement.

“A novel he didn’t like,” I said, glancing pointedly at Holmes.

“I might have some objections to the style, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t like it,” Holmes parried airily.

“How intriguing!” the Colonel exclaimed. “How is it called? Is it published already?”

“Oh, publishers,” I grumbled at the mention of that particular peeve of mine. “That was the most daunting part of it all. They kept rejecting it for five years, and I had to rewrite it again and again. Finally, _Beeton’s Christmas Annual_ deigned to accept it.”

“That’s the perseverance I recognise,” the Colonel patted me on the hand. “So, this Christmas?”

“Yes, finally, ‘A Study in Scarlet’ is to make an appearance,” I replied, delighted by his enthusiasm.

“Looking forward to it, my dear fellow. Judging by what you’ve shown me of your writing in our army days, you have a talent. And you know I am not prone to flattery.”

It was heartwarming to receive some support for a change. Holmes’s criticisms certainly hadn’t given me much confidence, especially at the time of repeated rejections by various publishers. Meanwhile, Holmes looked mildly discomforted by the Colonel’s gesture of familiarity towards me. I was torn between the joy of my writing being praised and concern for my partner, so I changed the topic. It worked. Holmes and the Colonel discussed at length types of soils, and from that point the conversation flowed again. I was glad they found a common ground, and that there was a noticeable shift in Sherlock’s mood. Energy seemed to be returning to him.

After dinner we lounged on the sofa in the gun-room while the Colonel paced about, recounting to us one of his hunting experiences in India. Sherlock listened politely, but I saw that his mind was on something else. He met my gaze and took my hand in his, an apologetic expression in his eyes. I smiled to reassure him. For someone amazingly astute sometimes he can be rather obtuse about things which constitute a relationship. It’s not really his fault: he had been very lonely for most of his life until we met.

“If I remember rightly, you’re a fancier of Eastern weapons, aren’t you, Doctor? Here are the few I’ve gathered over the years,” said the Colonel, gesturing at the display case in the corner of the room.

I got to my feet to get a better look, and Sherlock reposed on the sofa, apparently fatigued. The Colonel proceeded with showing me his little collection and then told us of a local robbery which had taken place at the neighbouring estate not long before. Naturally, it caught Sherlock’s attention, but I nipped such a development in the bud by reminding him that he was to rest and not to get involved in new conundrums. Sherlock acquiesced with a comic resignation that amused the Colonel. The three of us talked about other things, and in a few minutes my dear was yawning.

“If you will excuse me, gentlemen. I should better go to bed,” Sherlock said, rising.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Yes, quite. Just sleepy.”

“Good night, Mr. Holmes. Sleep well,” the Colonel said as Sherlock left the room.

It was only half past ten, so the Colonel and I reminisced about our army days, sipping whiskey and water. The Colonel’s manner was perfectly unassuming, but for some reason I had a persistent feeling of discomfort. Perhaps it was the way he looked at me. The easy camaraderie with which he spoke was belied by the simmering passion of his intent gaze. Nothing untoward was happening, and yet being alone with him seemed wrong. After a while I couldn’t stand it and expressed my intent to turn in early. The Colonel’s face fell.

“Stay a bit longer. Please,” he said in a gentle, cajoling tone as he put his hand over mine.

“No, I’d best retire,” I replied, withdrawing my hand. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, Colonel.”

Upon ascending the lofty staircase and crossing the hall, I saw a thin line of light under the door of the guest room assigned to us. Sherlock wasn’t sleeping. He lay curled on the bed and raised his head as I entered. A smile lit up his face, anxiety disappearing from his features. When I climbed into bed, he clutched me to himself and claimed my lips. His tongue ravished my mouth as we were divesting each other of the confining evening garments. He groaned and gasped, overly sensitive, rigid with tension. His pulse was beating frantically.

I caressed him and whispered sweet nothings to relax him. It never ceases to amaze me how he craves simple touch, especially once his aloof veneer is cast off. Cast off were the clothes too, and we moved against each other naked, in every sense. His nervous tension melted away; I could feel that he gave himself wholly to pleasure as did I. There was no shadow of melancholy in his eyes when he reached the peak and I followed. I would follow him anywhere.

Later, we shared the afterglow, our bodies pressed together. We were clean and sated, snuggling in our own small world, for we had drawn the curtains of the bedposts. Sherlock nuzzled my neck and breathed in with relish. His lips brushed over my skin as if he wished to say something, but then he sighed.

“What troubles you, darling?” I asked.

“About ‘A Study’...” he replied after some silence. “I thought my suggestions would be helpful and got carried away.”

“Well, you do get carried away when it comes to your favourite subject. Ah, the science of deduction. I love you all the same.”

“You can take revenge on me in your next book.”

“I shall.”

Chuckling quietly, we kissed.

In the morning Sherlock’s mood was good, and to secure this precarious improvement I suggested we had a walk after breakfast. But suddenly those plans were thwarted. As we were in the middle of our meal and the Colonel was recommending to us the most picturesque places in the vicinity, the butler burst into the dining-room quite out of breath. The story from the evening before about the local burglary had received a gruesome development: the neighbours’ coachman had been murdered. No sooner had the butler related to us the details and we started pondering the matter, a young police inspector arrived. He explained that he had heard of Holmes’s being on a visit here and requested the celebrated detective’s help. Circumstances were clearly working against my efforts to keep my partner away from physical and mental exertions. Of course Sherlock agreed to join the investigation, and all I could do was to tag along, hoping that he wouldn’t fall ill again. It turned out to be a peculiar case which deserves a write-up of its own, separately from this journal.

Sherlock was absorbed in the case the whole day and solved it by the evening. Surprisingly, it hadn’t exhausted him. On the contrary, his system had been completely re-energised. He was so much better that he declared our country vacation a distinct success and that he wished to return home the very next morning.

The shortness of our stay chagrined the Colonel, although he was impressed to have seen Holmes in action and glad of his speedy recovery.

“Good-bye, Doctor,” the Colonel said, shaking my hand at the station. “I see that you’ve found in Mr. Holmes a man after your own heart. God bless you.”

And so Holmes and I are back at Baker Street. Holmes is going through the accumulated mail with fresh zeal, having already wired _the_ _Times_ his consent to an interview. As for me, I shall start writing up the case of the Reigate squires at once, while everything is still fresh in my memory.


End file.
